


What Happens In Vegas...

by Roodles



Series: Not a Cellist [6]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU, Bruce's Banging Banana Pancakes, Domestic Avengers, Don't knock it till you try it folks, I decided to call their ship IronAgent, M/M, Oneshot, The Avengers can be jerks, Tony Feels, crackfic, established Tony/Phil, ironagent - Freeform, yup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roodles/pseuds/Roodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony just wanted coffee, and maybe some banana pancakes. Was that so much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens In Vegas...

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading some Tony/Phil fic earlier while I was sad, so I wrote a thing. They don't get enough love. They will always be IronAgent to me, and I can't bring myself to regret this. 
> 
> It _is_ crackfic, so forgive me for weird continuity issues. 
> 
> No beta, so all errors are mine.

It was supposed to be a regular morning for Tony. He woke up, rolled over, kissed his man good morning (it must have been love – morning breath was never brought up), and stumbled into the elevator in aims of finding breakfast on the communal level.

He was positive that he could smell Bruce’s Banging Banana Pancakes (dubbed thus by Tony), and it was confirmed when the elevator doors slid open and Tony shuffled out like a zombie, drawn to the siren call of freshly brewed coffee and Big Green’s badass cooking skills.

Half a cup of coffee later, he was feeling marginally more human when he realized that the others were staring at him.

“What?”

“What are you wearing?” Steve asked, his brow furrowed.

Tony had _thought_ he’d gone to bed in boxers and a t-shirt, but when he looked down he realized that they weren’t his. He was sporting a pair of Captain America boxers and a black tie was looped loosely around his neck. The t-shirt was white, which was a color he didn’t own very many clothes in, and Tony dimly wondered at what point in the night they’d switched clothes.

“Mmm,” was his diplomatic reply as he brought his coffee cup to his mouth, moaning around the sip.

“Are you actually wearing Captain America underwear, Tony?” Bruce murmured, exchanging Tony’s cup of coffee with a plate full of pancakes. Whining a bit, Tony pawed for his coffee with one hand, but was careful not to upset his delicious cargo.

“Well, they’re not _mine_ ,” he grumbled, taking his plate and plopping down into a chair. The night before had been amazing, but he didn’t really feel like explaining himself to his teammates. When Natasha snatched his left hand mid-grab for syrup, Tony realized he probably should have.

“What is this, Stark?” She asked with a threatening tone that was masquerading as curiosity.

‘This’ turned out to be a silver band on his ring finger, and Tony felt something shift in the room. All eyes were on his hand, and the damning flash of silver that looked a hell of a lot like a wedding ring. Not that it wasn’t a wedding ring, but still.

“Just where _were_ you last night, Tony?” Clint leered, his gaze following the line of Tony’s arm up, freezing at his shoulder. “Why are you wearing Coulson’s tie?” He hissed, and Natasha’s grip on Tony’s wrist became three shades too painful.

“Red! We have a color system, Charlotte! I keep telling you that!”

“Where’s Coulson?” Natasha asked, and Tony was equal parts terrified and impressed at the amount of secrets the Spy Twins weren’t aware of.

“Right here, Romanov. Stand down.”

Natasha dropped his hand at the sound of Coulson’s voice. The man managed to make early-morning shuffling both insanely hot and professional, and Tony felt his arousal spark, a low burn curling up and settling in wait for an after breakfast romp. He told his libido to behave, because there was a table full of disgruntled Avengers in front of him and no time for anything fun.

Coulson was wearing red and gold silk boxers, an AC/DC shirt that hugged him just right (Tony made a mental note to buy him more of those), and a pair of Iron Man slippers. His hair was mussed, but his eyes were clear as he took in the scene.

Clint was bristling and Natasha was probably searching for the knives she stashed in her night robe. Steve was looking equal parts alarmed and judgmental, and Bruce was making more pancakes. Coulson shook his head with a sigh, looking straight at Tony.

If their conversation would have had words, it would have gone like this:

 _Should we tell them?_ Tony tilted his head, crossing his arms.

 _They’re suspicious and nosy. I don’t want Barton in our vents._ Coulson shrugged, brow furrowing ever so slightly.

 _Fuck, that’s a disgusting thought. Here we go._ Tony made a matching expression of disgust, reaching for the coffee Bruce had placed at the corner of his plate.

Coulson walked around the table and stood behind Tony, resting his hands on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow circles on Tony’s neck.

“I trust that you won’t snap my neck, Agent. I need to be alive to be fabulous,” Tony cajoled, taking a sip of coffee.

“Is this some sort of sex pollen thing? Coulson, did he force you into this?” Clint barked, glaring at Tony.

Everyone’s gazes were accusatory, and even Bruce, was studying Tony with a critical eye. It made Tony want to disappear and curl around the hurt that bloomed through his chest behind the arc reactor. He felt both angry and worthless at the same time, and would have fled from the table if Coulson hadn’t pushed him back down.

“There’s no sex pollen involved, Barton,” Coulson replied, his voice clipped. Both Clint and Natasha straightened, recognizing the threat in their handler’s tone.

“Where were you last night, if you don’t my asking?” Steve asked, his voice laden with earnest curiosity.             

Tony wanted to bolt, not wanting the weight of their judgment or their stupid pity for Coulson. That’s how it always went, even with Pepper. Tony was too much. Tony was a handful. Tony wasn’t _worth it_.

He jolted when fingers carded through his hair, grounding him. Coulson was rubbing a thumb up and down the side of Tony’s neck, and his fingers were buried in his hair and stroking his scalp. Coulson was still there, still Tony’s rock. Taking a deep breath, Tony leaned back and rested against the other man’s abdomen, closing his eyes.

“Do you want to tell them?” Coulson murmured.

“Nah. I’m tagging out of this one. You’re it.”

He knew when Coulson looked back up at the others, knew that they were all confused and on edge.

“We were celebrating our anniversary,” the agent said simply, picking up Tony’s left hand in his, showing off matching silver bands.

Tony opened his eyes, feeling a stab of vindictive joy that Natasha and Clint were genuinely shocked. Steve was reeling, and Bruce was munching on pancakes, not too terribly worried now that everything was out in the air.

“Since when?” Natasha asked, the affront in her voice.

“Pepper’s sister is a cellist in Oregon. We were at some recital thing a couple years back and Phil was there as Little Potts’ date. We hit it off, eventually broke it off with the sisters. Got hitched.”

“What happens in Vegas doesn’t necessarily need to stay in Vegas,” Coulson added helpfully.

“When?” Natasha repeated while Clint shuffled in agitation.

“Before Afghanistan,” Tony bit out. “Last night was our five year anniversary.”

“Well then…” Steve mumbled, staring down at the table with a blush starting at the tips of his ears.

“If that’s all,” Coulson remarked, plucking a plate of pancakes off the table with one hand, and Tony out of his chair in the other. “We’re going to have breakfast in bed. Enjoy your day.”

Once they were back on the penthouse level and the pancakes safe in the kitchen, Tony allowed Phil to pull him into a tight hug. They stood like that in front of the New York Skyline for awhile, until Tony started nipping at Phil’s neck, hands wandering under the AC/DC shirt.

“What about the pancakes?” Phil murmured as Tony walked them back to the bedroom, t-shirts and boxers abandoned in the hallway.

Tony pushed Phil onto the bed, waiting for his husband to scoot backwards before he straddled him, a palm pressed over the bright pink scar on his chest.

“We have a microwave.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/Kudos welcome!


End file.
